Ghost of Adventures Past
Ghost of Adventures Past is an encounter in Muri Mortuorum. Enemies * Wraith (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) * Ancient Wraith (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) Transcript Introduction "We're going to die here!" "Doomed! We're all doomed!" "We should kill ourselves, before they can kill us!" "Yes! Kill me first, then I'll kill you!" "These bones will swallow our souls!" "This place will be our graveyard!" you wail, adding the mournful declaration to the collective babble. "Our skeletons will join its walls and linger here for all eternity!" You frown. This seems rather familiar... Brachus meets your gaze from within Hugh's eyes, and both of you utter the same word: "Wraith!" The cleansing spell you uttered in the forest clearing leaves your lips once more. Its effects is no less potent for the repetition. "Oh..." "Well, I wasn't really going to kill you." "We're not doomed. Not more than we usually are, anyway." "On the walls," Tessa says. You gaze upwards. Winged ebon-clad forms stand atop the barriers of bone, their black hoods and cloaks shifting shadows around ghostly skeletal bodies. Your eyes drift across the sinister gathering, assessing each foe in turn. But they pause on one of the creatures. Ruined wings stretched out from its shoulders like decayed relics, almost stripped bare of the curious feather-like bones the others bear on theirs. Yet a grim power radiates from that one, an unquestionable air of ancientness. "It's long since these bones were last raised," it rasps. The voice is the remnant of a man's --hollow, echoing. Whatever accent it bears is alien to your ear, a broken, archaic heirloom like his wings. "Centuries. Once, before even the von Malhavens, they stood at all times, a barrier to any who crossed the land. Then they were hidden in the earth. This is but the second time since that they've tasted the air. Be honored, stranger. To perish here is to be part of history." "The ancient undead have a gift for melodrama," Brachus murmurs. "I know why you've come. It will make your deaths at my hands... poetic." The wraith pauses, and you wait for him to elaborate -- curious as to his meaning. But he remains silent. Then he and the others flit down from the walls. Conclusion Blades sheathed in magic rise and fall, brace and thrust. Enchanted arrows and flashing spells fly in all directions. Cloaks tear. Bones break. Wraiths are powerful, but they're as vulnerable as any other form of undead to those with the knowledge of their nature and their destruction. The ancient one wields potent magic, dark sorceries from an age long-past. Tongues of flame lick at you, black tentacles rise from the ground and snatch at your legs. Despair tries to take root in your heart and soul. Unimaginable horrors dance within his eyes. But this thing's been flitting around the landscape of Stromhamre for the gods alone know how long, whilst you've been sharpening your skills in battle after battle. That difference is telling. A bolt of aureate light illuminates the night, challenging the moon with its radiance. The wraith tries to dive aside. Tries and fails. One of his ravaged wings crumbles away, obliterated by holy energy. The second bolt takes the right half of his skull, leaving one glowing eye to glare from the wreckage of his skeletal face. He staggers like a drunkard, his single eye fading and flashing as whatever mind and soul he possesses teeters on the brink of exodus. "Gypsy whore!" it spits. "Always just a gypsy whore!" The words mean nothing to you. A third bolt finishes the thing, and casts its centuries into the abyss where they belong. Category: Muri Mortuorum